


The Art of Losing

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: Firefly
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, F/M, Fix-It, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Masturbation, Memories, Multi, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-16 02:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: Inara's told Mal she's leaving Serenity.  She should be making arrangements to leave, but instead she. . .isn't.The art of losing isn’t hard to master;so many things seem filled with the intentto be lost that their loss is no disaster.[...]I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gestureI love) I shan’t have lied.  It’s evidentthe art of losing’s not too hard to masterthough it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.--"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop





	The Art of Losing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maidenjedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maidenjedi/gifts).



> Attempts at Firefly-level Chinese assisted by http://fireflychinese.com/ (which is an interesting and hilarious read!).

_I'm leaving._

Having finally managed to say the words, Inara should feel relieved.  But she doesn’t.

Sorrow, she feels, which she expected.  She will miss _Serenity_ and its people; that’s precisely why she put off leaving for so long, and precisely why she has to go.

Pain and regret, too, for the look on Mal’s face, like she’d put a knife in his gut.  It was unkind of her to tell him when he was already in pain and had chosen to deliberately make himself vulnerable to her, but that was also why she had to say it then.  Truth, he’d asked for: the truth of her feelings, the truth of the two of them.  There was no part of the truth that she could say to his face, and stay.  If she’d tried, it would only have made it harder for her to leave, down the road, and worse for both of them when she did.

Of course, leaving isn’t as simple as declaring one’s intention.  There are arrangements to make, people to contact—and, of course, _Serenity_ ’s increasingly unpredictable itinerary.  There are days, if not weeks, of travel ahead before she can actually put _Serenity_ behind her.  Mal did promise he’d find a way to get her where she’s going, as soon as she lets him know where that is.  She hasn’t, yet, and time is wasting.

 _She’s_ wasting time.  Instead of putting out feelers for appropriate situations to pursue, or packing her things, or even deciding where to have _Serenity_ drop her off, she finds herself pacing her shuttle or sitting, staring at nothing, doing nothing at all.

The rest of the crew don’t know yet, only Mal.  He said he’d leave it to her to make the announcement in her own way, in her own time.  She’s grateful for the courtesy, and she truly believes that’s what it is: Mal conceding as gracefully and kindly as he can.  It’s not his fault that this is difficult for her, and it’s certainly not his responsibility to make it easier.  She’s the one who hurt him, after all.  She’s the one who wants this.  She can hardly be annoyed with him for the situation.

However, the fact is that socializing with the others has become awkward, because they can see that she and Mal can hardly bear to be in each other’s presence, let alone speak naturally to each other, but they don’t know the cause.  Tiptoeing politely around unknown landmines makes for strained conversation.  Worse, the longer this goes on, the greater the chance that someone will just _ask._   She doesn't feel like facing either right now.  It's easier to simply spend most of her time in her shuttle, absenting herself from communal meals.  Her comings and goings have always been tangential to the crew's in any case.  She’s only a little more absent now.  Probably no one will even notice much difference.

They all need to get accustomed to it, anyway.

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

When there’s a knock on her shuttle door, she considers not answering it.  But her training is stronger than the lethargy and faster than her conscious decision-making, and her hand is on the door-release panel while she’s still dully pondering the alternative.

It’s Kaylee.  (Not Mal, which isn’t surprising in the least.  If he’d found her door locked, his knock wouldn’t have been anything like so gentle.  Anyway, he won’t be coming to her door again.  Not for any reason.)

“You. . .doin’ okay?”  Kaylee looks up at her, big-eyed with concern.  Sweet, frank, simple Kaylee—not that she’s unintelligent, far from it; what she is, is uncomplicated.  Even her troubles are straightforward.  And her engineer’s heart believes that every trouble has a straightforward solution.

For a shocking moment, Inara is nearly overwhelmed by the intense impulse to slap her across her open, friendly face.

The feeling is gone before Inara can do more than draw a breath.  It leaves her off-center and deeply exhausted.  But Kaylee’s already over the threshold, confident in the welcome she’s always found here.

“I’m. . .fine,” says Inara, dredging up a smile.  But it’s merely a polite one, and not her best effort, and Kaylee isn’t fooled.

“You sure?  You don’t look—I mean, not that you look. . .like anything, but that was some terrible business back on that moon and. . .well, Nandi was your friend, and. . .and you ain’t been out and about much since then, and the Cap’n thought as how maybe you could use some company?”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Inara snaps, the anger flaring again out of nowhere.  “How kind of him to share his wisdom.  After all, he’s quite the authority on emotions.”

“Aw, no, you know he didn’t mean it that way,” soothes Kaylee, concerned and a little alarmed.  “And anyway, I didn’t come ‘cause he told me to.  I just—I wasn’t sure if maybe you wanted your privacy, so I asked him if he thought I’d better stay clear a while, is all.”

Inara draws a slow, deliberate breath, picturing the sun on the cherry blossoms in the students’ courtyard, the tinkle of windchimes on the summer breeze.  She exhales just as deliberately, willing the anger away, shaping her face into softness, modulating her voice into a low, calm key so that she can reply.

“I’m sorry, Kaylee.  I didn’t mean to snap at you.  I. . .you’re right, these past few days have been. . .hard for me.”  There, it’s not so hard to admit the blindingly obvious, now is it?

“It’s okay.  You lost somebody you cared about.  That’s enough to make anybody lose their manners a little, right?”

( _“The others look to you, Inara. . .” “I trust you to uphold the honor of House Madrassa in the eyes of the galaxy. . .” A procession of Companions, two by two, silent and perfect under the hot sun of the courtyard, the white-draped coffin. . .  The dance room full of red-eyed girls, not daring to whisper; Inara takes her place at the front and raises her fan, and a dozen fans open in unison. . ._ )

It’s too much effort to come up with an appropriate verbal response.  Instead, she gives Kaylee a smile edged with some of the weariness she feels, hoping that will serve as both thanks and apology, and discourage Kaylee from pressing her further to talk about her feelings.

It almost has the desired effect.  Kaylee doesn’t refer to Nandi again.  On the other hand, what she does say, as she and Inara settle down among Inara’s cushions, is, “You have a fight with the Cap’n or something?  ‘Cause it seemed like y’all was getting right friendly, lately, but. . .”

She is absolutely not discussing Mal with Kaylee.

She wishes Kaylee would just go, leave her in peace.  She wishes she hadn’t answered the door.  But she did, and that confers some obligation.  And she doesn’t want to hurt Kaylee; she likes Kaylee.

She’ll miss Kaylee.

“I. . .I told Mal that I’m leaving _Serenity_.  For good.  It’s time for our business arrangement to end.”

Somehow, saying it to Kaylee makes it feel more real than saying it to Mal did.  She can’t take it back now, not that she intended to.

Kaylee’s eyes are round with shock.  She’s easy to shock, though.  Easy to hurt, easy to please, and her face reflects every passing emotion.  Completely undisciplined, except when it comes to matters mechanical or electrical.

“You’re not really leaving, though, right?  You’re just. . .trying to drive a bargain with the Cap’n or. . .or. . .something?”  She looks so sad, and so hopeful.  Inara feels like she’s kicking a kitten.

“I’m really leaving,” she says, gently but firmly.

“’Cause you had a fight with Mal?” asks Kaylee, demonstrating once again that her straightforward nature in no way makes her a fool.

“No, not. . .we didn’t fight,” Inara says, which is, in fact, the truth.  Maybe if they’d fought. . .things would have turned out differently.

It wouldn’t have made a difference to Burgess’s laser.  To Nandi.  As for her and Mal, this is the right outcome, hard as it feels.  She can’t wish that away.

Kaylee frowns like she’s trying to decide whether to believe Inara.  Inara concentrates on her own breathing ( _inhale, exhale_ ) to keep from frantically wondering what Mal told Kaylee, what he’s doing, how he looks, is he sulking and snapping, did he send Kaylee to her because—?

“Then how come you’re leaving us?” Kaylee asks, and Inara is almost grateful for the interruption of her spiraling thoughts.  Almost.

“It’s. . .it’s just time.  It’s been getting more and more difficult for me to get work, with _Serenity_ ’s erratic itinerary, and—”

“We can fix that.  Just because we need to fly under the radar more these days, don’t mean we can’t figure some way to get you to your clients regular.  Cap’n’d be willing, you just need to sit down and—”

“It’s not just that.” 

In fact, since she called him on the problem, Mal has been making an effort to find ways to accommodate her.  And honestly, she wouldn’t even mind the reduced work.  It’s not as though she’s hurting for credits.

“Then what?” Kaylee presses with the dogged persistence and round, pleading eyes of a small child.  “Why?”

“I never meant to travel with _Serenity_ permanently.  It was always a temporary arrangement.  I wanted to travel the Rim for a while and make connections there, and then move on.”  She almost says, _Move on to the next phase of my career,_ but that would skirt too close to lying.  She had no plans then for what would come next; she has none now.

“But how come now?  You weren’t planning all along to leave now, or you’d have just told us so in the first place.”

Inara has explained her reasons for leaving once already, to Mal.  Perhaps not the details of how and why, but the what of it, the emotional core.  She owed him that much.

She doesn’t owe Kaylee an explanation.  Kaylee isn’t tangled up in Inara’s reasons for going, her reasons for wanting to stay.  She hasn’t given Kaylee any reason to expect more from her than she can give.

Except, of course, that she has, and of course Kaylee has expectations.  Kaylee thinks they’re friends.  Kaylee expects Inara to treat her like a friend.  And Inara. . .if she can’t give Kaylee what she deserves, can at least give her the same pittance she gave Mal.

“I. . .I realized, recently, that I’ve become. . .attached to _Serenity,_ to—to all of you, more than I ever imagined I would.  More than I should.  I can’t—a Companion can’t be tied to anyone too tightly, not unless she makes a lifetime, exclusive contract, or retires to settle down with someone.  So, I have to leave now, before it becomes even harder for me to do.”

“You’re leaving ‘cause. . .you like us too much?” Kaylee asks incredulously.  Inara can’t blame her.  She knows how it sounds.

She also doesn’t have the energy to argue, or convince, or soothe.  So she simply says, “Yes.”

“Well, that’s just dumb!  You can do your work and still have friends!” Kaylee protests, then adds, with a touch of uncertainty, “I mean, there ain’t no rule against it, is there?”

The answer is far more complicated than a simple _yes_ or _no,_ and not really the point.

“We’ll still be friends,” Inara offers weakly.

“But it won’t be the same!  We’re not just any old friends, we’re. . .I thought we were. . .family."

“And when was the last time you saw your parents?”  It’s a cruel riposte, and Inara can see the hurt in Kaylee’s eyes as it hits, but it fails to make Kaylee back down.

“That ain’t the same thing at all,” she retorts.  “I love my family back home, and I send ‘em letters and wave ‘em and all, and I get a chance to visit ‘em, I’ll surely jump at it.  But leaving the family you were born to, that’s part of growing up.  You go out in the world, even if it’s just to the next ranch over the hill, and you find people to make yourself a new family of your own with.  And then you stick by 'em!”

Inara doesn’t want to fight with Kaylee.  She doesn’t want to keep standing here hurting her, and she doesn’t have any words that will make this better for either of them.

“I’m sorry, _mei-mei_.”

“Don’t you call me that!”  Kaylee’s lip trembles.  “You never really meant it, did you?”

Inara has no answer for her.  Her affection for Kaylee is genuine, but she’s always planned to leave and she certainly never meant to become entangled, to belong, and endearments can be little gifts without implying great responsibilities, and Nandi still called Inara _mei-mei_ after all these years apart, as though it were easy, and Inara never had the chance to find out how deep the meaning ran.

Taking Inara’s silence for confirmation, Kaylee scrambles to her feet as she bursts out, “Fine, go ahead, leave us and go have your beautiful, fancy life with all the prettiest and smartest people in the ‘verse lining up to pay attention to you and—and—silk gowns and strawberries every night and music and poetry and I don’t even know what-all else.  And then you can ship us your body when you die because we’re still your family whether you want us or not.”

She storms out of the shuttle, leaving Inara hugging herself, thinking distantly, _Well, at least that’s one thing taken care of._

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

Voices always echo through the metal corridors when everyone’s gathered around the dining table.  Inara can hear them well before she enters the kitchen.  Light chatter, everyday sounds, but subdued.  Not the easy, congenial laughter that’s become. . .not uncommon, of late, and when did that happen, and why did she fail to notice that it was happening?

As she descends the steps (glides, her robes flowing gracefully around her, _a water lily, a swan_ ), the conversation dies abruptly.  Eight heads turn to look at her.  Even Book and Simon—the Shepherd and the Doctor—who can usually be counted on for good manners, gape at her like she’s some station huckster’s ‘freak of nature’ in a glass vat.  Well, she can’t blame them.  And she knows it’s concern, more than curiosity, that makes them stare.

The silence only lasts the space of a couple of breaths.  Then Zoë turns to Wash, saying, “Back me up here, husband, it was on our first run to Persephone,” in an obvious cue to pick up the thread of the interrupted conversation.

Kaylee, bless her heart, scoots over to make a place next to her, inviting Inara with her eyes, but Inara remains standing, and Wash stutters silent halfway through his reply.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” Inara begins around the lump in her throat.

“You ain’t interrupting nothing,” Kaylee assures her.

“I have an announcement to make.”  Inara fixes her gaze on the foot of the table, between Jayne and Simon, so that she can address the whole group.  (So she doesn’t have to see the look on Kaylee’s face.  Or Mal’s.)  “I’ve already spoken to the Captain about this.  I want to let you know that I’ll be parting ways with _Serenity_ as soon as we can make all the appropriate arrangements.”

No one says anything.  It’s one of those live-wire silences, where you can almost hear the hum of unspoken thoughts, but not quite make out the words.  Inara lets her gaze roam over their faces:

Simon, lips parted in astonishment, brows creasing into a frown as he cuts a glance at his sister. . .River, upset as only a teenager can get, looking across the table at Kaylee, at Mal, then looking straight into Inara’s face with eyes that are suddenly too knowing and not young at all—

She jerks her gaze away.  Sees Kaylee, biting her lips and staring down at her plate.  Wash, surprised.  Zoë, poker-faced, calculating, carefully not looking at. . .anyone.  Jayne, more interested in his supper than the news.  Book, calm as ever, sympathetic.

(Mal, seated at her left elbow, hasn’t moved.  She doesn’t look in his direction, but she can see the shape of him in the corner of her eye.)

The silence stretches until, despite all her social training, she lets discomfort rattle her into saying more.

“I’ve enjoyed my time with you all, but I have to go.”  She says it graciously, she knows she does, but River’s still staring at her with ancient eyes and Kaylee is on the verge of tears, and to her own ears she sounds like a desperate mother trying to bargain with her toddlers.

With predictably poor results.  Kaylee bursts out, “You don’t have to. You _want_ to.”

“C’mon, hush now,” says Mal before Inara can think of a response.  “Ain’t no call for fussing.  Just let her be.”

“Somebody’s gotta fuss!” Kaylee protests.  “Did you even say anything to her?  You know why she’s leaving?”

“I know it’s her business and not ours,” Mal warns quietly.  He sounds exhausted, grim.  Jayne and River are staring frankly at the three of them, while the others look awkwardly anywhere else.  The tension in the room is like being forced to listen to a badly-tuned dulcimer.  The base of Inara’s skull starts to throb.

“It _is_ our business, Inara’s our _friend_ , and you’re just going to let her—”

“Kaylee—”  Mal’s voice rises but Inara cuts through it without raising her own.

“It’s all right,” she says.  “I’m going.”

She walks out of the room, back to her shuttle.  No one tries to stop her.

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

“Inara?  It’s Shepherd Book.  I brought you some supper.  May I come in?”

Curled amongst her pillows, Inara raises her voice to carry through the door ( _sweetly, like a flute, always heard, never shrill_ ).

“I’m not hungry.  But thank you.”

Unsurprisingly, he replies immediately, in that gentle voice of his (Shepherds probably train their voices, too; does Book practice in his room where no one can hear?).

“If you need someone to talk to. . . ?”

“No thank you, Shepherd,” she says, allowing weariness to color her polite tone.

He pauses only briefly before deciding to press.

“I wasn’t only referring to your announcement.  You’ve lost someone you loved, under terrible circumstances.  I know that everyone grieves in their own way, but—”

“Frankly, Shepherd, I don’t find religion comforting,” snaps Inara icily.

But Book is well-used to that sort of attack, and replies calmly, “I’ve never forced it on anyone, Inara.  A listening ear, or even simply some quiet company, so you don’t have to be alone—”

“Has it occurred to you that I might have gone to my private residence and shut the door precisely because I want to be alone?”

This time, the silence is much longer.  But she doesn’t hear footsteps, so she isn’t surprised when he eventually does speak again.

“You know. . .change is always difficult.  Unsettling.  Frightening, sometimes.  Even necessary change.”

He pauses, giving her time to respond.  When she doesn’t, he continues, “I’m sure it’s been difficult for you, reconciling your principles, your expectations, with those of. . .well, a pack of thieves, to put it bluntly.  I’ve certainly found it challenging, myself.  I do believe they’re good-hearted people. . .mostly. . .but it’s a rough life out here and they’re, shall we say, rather misguided at times?  Perhaps at the best of times?” 

A touch of wry humor, there; an invitation to commiserate.  Book has always imagined he and she must be allies, two exiles from the civilized world clinging to each other out here in the Black. 

“I’ve thought, myself, of moving on," he confides.  "Frequently.  Indeed, I think. . .”  He clears his throat.  “I only mean to say, I don’t believe anyone would blame you for following your conscience.”

Another day, she’d take comfort from his attempt to comfort her, or at least act as though she did so he could feel useful.  Another day she’d listen to him struggle with his own dilemma of whether to stay or go.

Today she can’t summon the energy to respond, or to care how rude she’s being, whether she’ll hurt his feelings, whether he’ll think less of her.

He waits what seems like a long time before accepting that silence is all the response he’ll get.  She hears him set a tray gently down outside the door, and his slow, firm tread retreating.

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

The door isn’t actually locked, but whoever’s knocking this time doesn’t take Inara’s silence as license to barge in.  Even when she musters up the will to call, “Come,” they don’t.

Perversely, that irritates her enough to bring her to her feet.

She opens the door and stares dumbly at Mal, who’s standing there in his scarlet shirt and braces, with a bottle in his hand.

“I ain’t here to ask nothin’ of you,” he says quietly.  “Ain’t trying to. . .try anything.  Just, I got something you could maybe use, is all.”

“What's that?” she manages, though her voice comes out a whisper.

“Don’t know how they do things on Sihnon, but on the Rim, when someone dies, we hold a wake.”  He holds up the bottle.  “I know I wasn’t what you’d rightly call a friend of hers, but a wake needs at least two people.  Elsewise, it’s just drinking alone.”

He’s the last person in the ‘verse she wants to deal with right now.  She doesn’t want to hear his voice, see his face, feel the heat that pours off his big, solid body, so that even at arm’s length, it’s like standing by a poorly-insulated piece of machinery.  She doesn’t want to argue with him and she most certainly doesn’t want to think about his feelings or her own.

But she doesn’t want him to go.  It seizes her like a cramp as she opens her mouth to dismiss him; she actually hugs her arms around her own body to keep herself from grabbing him and clinging like a drowning woman.

She draws a slow, slow breath, fighting her lungs’ urge to hyperventilate, forcing her mind to open to cherry blossoms and windchimes and summer breeze ruffling her hair.  The impulse to act like a madwoman dissipates with the air she releases.  Mostly.  She gathers her composure, clutches it tightly around her with metaphorical fingernails.

She’ll be gone soon.  They won’t be able to hurt each other any more.  He’s being unexpectedly gracious; the least she can do is return the courtesy.

She takes a step back, gesturing him in with an open palm.

“But not with that rotgut,” she chides, wrinkling her nose at Mal’s bottle.  Her performance of light-hearted teasing is mediocre at best, but he acknowledges it with a one-sided smile.

She glides past him to kneel before the lacquer cabinet where she keeps both tea and rice wine.  When she holds up the porcelain flask, Mal nods slowly in appreciation.  Not of the wine itself, which he can’t see, and doesn’t have the palate to judge in any case.  But he understands why it’s the proper thing to drink to Nandi with, which, Inara supposes, is evidence enough that he does have some right to be doing this.

He waits for her to grant permission with a look before gingerly lowering himself down to the cushions a deliberate arm's-length from her.

In silence, she pours the wine, passes him a cup (both of them careful not to let their fingers brush), and raises her own.

“To Anandi Jessamyn Levitt, once of House Madrassa,” she says.  “To Nandi, mistress of the Heart of Gold.”

“To Nandi,” Mal echoes.  He gulps down his wine in one shot.

She sips her own, but he admonishes, “Hey, no, you can’t sip it all slow like that.  We got some serious drinking to get done, here.  Got no time for society manners.”

“You really have no palate at all, do you?” she grouses.

“Wasn’t me who brought out the good stuff.  C’mon, drink it down.  Proper toast.”

She does understand the point of this exercise, so she tosses her drink back like he did, not even blinking at the burn of the fumes.  She meets his eyes pointedly.  He’s surprised, of course—they’re always surprised when the lady puts on frontier manners—but he just tilts his empty cup in her direction, then picks up the flask and pours another round.

“So, uh.”  He's looking down at the cup in his hand when he speaks, not at her.  She wonders if that's for his own ease or hers.  “Now we, uh, we tell stories.  Remember her.”

“Stories?”  Storytelling is one of the arts Inara has mastered.  Selecting a tale to suit the occasion, choosing the right words, shaping a concise and vivid narrative, manipulating the mood of her audience. . .  She must have a hundred stories to tell about Nandi. . .but her mind is a frozen blank.

When the silence stretches awkwardly long, Mal asks (casually, still contemplating his wine cup, as if they were simply making idle conversation), "How’d y'all get to be friends, anyway?  Met at Companion school, right?”

“At the Academy, yes,” Inara replies gratefully.  “We entered in the same year, although I started young, so she was almost two years older than me.”

“How old was that?”

“She was thirteen.  I was eleven.”  She expects some reaction from him—either along the lines of _awful young_ or _they don’t start you as babies?_ —but he just nods and waits for her to continue.  “In our calligraphy lesson, we were writing out poems—classical works, the point was to consider the nuances of meaning that can be expressed through the visual effect of the characters, how that can speak to the text itself.”

Now Mal does raise his eyebrows, but he still refrains from snide commentary and simply gestures for her to go on.

“Well, Nandi’s was a very. . .artistic interpretation.  The characters were correct and more or less legible, but she embellished them in a way that created a series of visual puns, that, combined with the text. . .”

“Dirty joke?” Mal guesses.

“Mm hm.  The teacher was furious, of course.”

“I bet.  And. . . ?”

“I was the only student who laughed.  Nandi decided I had potential.  And. . .I suppose the rest is history.”

Mal nods as he raises his cup for another toast.

“Nandi told me she busted a dulcimer over her teacher’s head before she left the Academy,” he says, refilling the cups again.  "That a true story?”

“Over his head?  She never said that!” Inara protests, startled into a smile, although she can absolutely imagine Nandi embellishing the tale in that fashion.

“Well, might be that weren’t quite the way she told it," Mal admits.  "There was definitely something about a dulcimer.”

Smiling, Inara takes the bait.  “Oh, yes.  That particular instructor was. . .well, he was an excellent teacher, in the sense that he knew everything there was to know about music, had a perfect ear, and he could not only catch the subtlest error but explain to you how to correct it.  But he was also an insufferable tyrant.  He wanted us to be perfect, you see.  Imperfection infuriated him.  And Nandi, well, she never did have much patience with details.  For her, the question was always, does this work or not?  She figured, if it worked, that was good enough.”

Mal nods.  “That’s a real Rim-like way of thinking.  But it didn’t do her so much good at the Academy?”

“No, it didn’t.  It’s a shame, because she could have made an excellent Companion if she’d been willing to apply herself in the necessary way.”

“Or if the Academy had lightened up a little, valued her for what she was.”

“That’s certainly the way she saw it,” Inara replies.  “She’d been chafing for some time.  After our house priestess made it clear. . .well.  The dulcimer wasn’t the reason she left.  I don’t think it was even the last straw, just. . .her farewell statement.”

Mal nods, one side of his mouth quirking in an appreciative smile.  “Memorable one.”

“Nandi did always have a way of saying things memorably.”

“She was one hell of a memorable lady,” Mal says, raising his cup, and Inara acknowledges the toast with her own.

Mal goes to refill the cups, but the flask is empty; it’s sized for social lubrication, not hard drinking.  He raises his eyebrows at her in a silent question.

“You still have that bottle handy?” she asks.

He fishes it out of the cushions and hands it over.

“Gonna drink me under the table?” he asks with a sly, challenging smile that she responds to in kind before considering whether she should.

“You think I can’t?”

“I think you can do just about anything you take a notion to.”  His eyes drop to his hands, which are busy filling the cups.  But before she can think of a response, he’s back to bantering: “They teach you to drink in Companion school?”

“Of course,” she replies.  “A Companion can’t simply abstain; drinking is integral to so many social rituals, there are too many contexts in which declining a drink would be impolite, or impolitic.  And we certainly can’t afford to get drunk.  On the other hand, there are quite a few tactical advantages to being the least-drunk person in the room.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Mal agrees with a thoughtful frown.  “I guess. . .for you, goin’ to a party must be about like goin’ into battle, huh?”

“Of course it is.  People always have their own agendas.  Every social interaction is. . .if not a battle, then at best a game.  We all compete for advantage, every time we come into contact.  What else would you call it when you talk to someone like Badger, or Prudence, or—or Niska?”

Mal bares his teeth in a pained smile.  “Niska, that's more what you'd call a straight-up literal battle.”

“I'm sorry.  I didn’t mean—”

He waves away the apology.  “Naw, I take your point.  Folks are pretty much out for their own selves, so you gotta treat them according.  But. . .”

He shakes his head and makes that same waving-away gesture again, but she presses, “What?”

“Well, it’s just. . .you do that way with everybody?  All the time?”  He doesn’t actually add, _with your friends,_ but he doesn’t have to.

Inara tilts her cup in a circle, watching the dark ripples against the white porcelain.

“It takes a long time, a lot of practice, to master the art of hiding your thoughts and being sincere at the same time.  It means finding whatever good there is to be found in everyone and responding genuinely to it, while at the same time being aware of. . .everything else, and letting that knowledge inform your choices.  You shape the situation, always—craft it—but you also have to live in the moment.  Our instructors used to say, ‘Walk with your guests in your garden, delight in its beauty together, but keep your bedroom door locked.’”

To her surprise, Mal doesn’t argue or scoff, just grunts acknowledgement.  “Guess most folks do that way.  Only lot of them keep a guard dog in the garden.  Not so much with the guest-entertaining.”

“Nandi always said it was fallacious,” Inara finds herself saying, as though his lack of resistance has somehow compelled her to take up the other side of the argument.

“What, now?”

“Faulty reasoning.  _Goushi_.  She said if you can’t ever invite anyone into your bedroom, then it’s just a fancy prison cell.  Said—said she didn’t intend to wither away in jail.”

But she can’t bring herself to tell Mal what else Nandi said.

_“We’ll be all right though, we’ve got each other.  We can be all masks and gardens with everyone else, but there won’t be any locked doors between you and me.  Not ever.  Promise.”_

_“Promise,” Inara agreed._

“You think. . . ?”  Mal clears his throat.  “Seemed like that moon coulda been a pretty lonesome place for a gal like her.  You think she found what she was after?"

“I don’t know.  I hope so.  She wasn’t the sort of woman to take no for an answer from life.”

Nodding, Mal raises his cup and drinks it off.

Inara follows suit.  Mal’s hooch is about as eye-wateringly terrible as she predicted, burning her throat and stinging her sinuses, but she doesn't mind.  It's bracing, like a splash of icy water in the face; it helps her recover her composure.

“But I wouldn’t want to give you the idea that Nandi never did anything but defy our instructors,” she says—too brightly, too obviously performing, but Mal just listens, playing the role of the attentive audience.  “She worked as hard as anyone to master her lessons, and in fact, when she had the right incentive, there was very little that could stop her.  I remember, in our third year, she decided that the two of us were going to win the spring dancing competition. . .”

By the time she hits the punchline, Mal’s chuckling appreciatively, which makes it easier to think of another funny Nandi story to follow on with.  She tells him about the frogs in the teapot; about Nandi's battle of wills with the makeup mistress; about the midnight barefoot excursion over the tiled rooftops that ended with Inara creating a distraction while Nandi extricated herself from the bathhouse, and the shenanigans involved in hiding her twisted ankle from everyone afterwards.  Somehow, each story makes the next flow more easily, lubricated by liquor and Mal’s easy grin, details she hasn’t thought about in years welling up from her memory and spilling out of her mouth.

“. . .the two of them were so busy trying to beat each other that Nandi won three hands out of every four.”

“Cleaned ‘em out, huh?”

“Mm hm.  As I recall, they had to borrow some cash from her to settle up the dinner bill.”

Inara takes up the bottle to refill their cups for the toast, but she’s misplaced hers somehow, so she just takes a swig directly from the bottle.  Apparently she can surprise Mal once but not twice; he chuckles and grins at her with frank admiration.  Well, if that's the way he wants to play, she's more than a match for him.  She shoots him a challenging look:  _I'll see your bet, and raise it._

“So that’s what you like, huh?  A gal with loose manners?” she asks in the coarse rhythm and accent of the Rim, cocking her elbows and splaying her legs as she passes the bottle over.

But Mal doesn't rise to the bait.  He just gives her a long, thoughtful look, then takes his own drink from the bottle before replying.

“I like a woman who is who she is and don't pretend to be nothin’ else.”

“Then why in God’s name do you like me?”  The words burst from her mouth without her intent.  She slaps her hand uselessly over her mouth as Mal's eyes go wide with surprise.

Her cheeks burn with mortification; she can't look at him.  She's not this drunk, surely.  She has better control than this.  What in the 'verse could have possessed her?

“Well, I don’t do it in God’s name, that’s a certainty,” Mal says quietly. “And another certainty is, that I do like you.”

“Despite yourself?” she retorts with unexpected bitterness.

Mal is silent for a few moments, then says, “I might'a. . .set out to not like you too much, at first.  But truth is, I liked you the minute you told me I was bound to take you on board.  Thought to myself, there’s a woman knows her own worth, knows what she wants and won’t take no for an answer.  Sense of humor about it, too.  My kinda people.”

Inara has no idea how to respond to that other than, “Thank you.”

She still can't bring herself to look at him, so she's caught by surprise by the change in his tone when he speaks again, thick with submerged feeling. 

“Inara. . .you didn’t think. . .‘Cause I never thought of you as just a pretty face.  You knew that, right?  ‘Cause if you thought I only wanted—if that’s why—”

“I knew,” she interrupts, remembering the two of them dangling their feet over a cargo bay full of cows, plotting together to make a fool of Saffron, bickering over Mal's ridiculous attempts to swing a sword, so many moments in between. . . Of course she knows, that’s exactly the problem, and this is exactly the conversation they can’t have, now or ever, she thought he understood that.  “It’s your turn now.”

“My turn?”

“To tell a story. About Nandi.  That’s—that’s what we’re doing.”

Mal blinks hard, but though she’s thrown him badly off balance, he does understand, because he gamely shifts course to give her what she needs from him.

“Oh, right.  Well. . .”  He scratches his head.  “Can’t say as I got many tales ‘bout Nandi.  Only knew her for two days.  But I can say this: she were one brave, stubborn lady, who wouldn’t let a _hundan_ do wrong by her and hers.  Who died protecting her family.  And they avenged her.”

He raises the bottle reverently, takes a swig, and passes it to her so she can do the same.

“Go on,” says Inara, handing it back.  He fumbles it, but catches it before it falls.

“Well, now, let’s see. . .I called her a lady."  He frowns in concentration.  His speech has gone slow and careful, his consonants muddy, but he's not too drunk to put together a complete sentence.  "That’s a word can mean a lot of different things to different people.  Nandi, maybe she didn’t stick it out and learn everything they had to teach her on Sihnon.  But she had grace and grit in equal measure.  To my mind, that makes her the perfect lady.”

This time he tilts the bottle in her direction before drinking.

“You know, she showed me those guns of hers, the night before. . ."  He shakes his head, takes another swallow.  "Took pride in ‘em.  Pretty pieces, real dainty, but they’d kill a man just fine.  Kept ‘em in good working order, even the one she couldn’t get ammo for easy.  Didn’t never see her shoot ‘em, myself, but I’ve a notion she was a right fine match for those guns.”

“Mm hm, that was Nandi.”  Her own words come out sloppy—her instructors would have been appalled—but who cares?  “Practical.  And lovely.  Mother of pearl over steel.  And you better watch out for the bang. . .”

She dissolves into giggles and Mal follows, listing over sideways until he topples, snickering helplessly.  He lands halfway on a large pillow and halfway on her shoulder.  She shoves at him to try to help him upright, but he’s heavy and floppy and he’s somehow pinned one of her sleeves under him.

“Go on, tell another,” she urges as she extricates herself, still poking at him, but Mal says, “Wait, wait, we forgot to drink!” so they take care of that, fumbling the bottle between them and then nearly bumping foreheads as they each try to drink first.

They both freeze, their faces so close together that Mal’s eyes are just a blur to her.  She can feel the heat coming off his skin and taste his liquor-scented laughter on her own lips.  The moment hangs, waiting for them to fall one way or the other, into the kiss or—

She leans back, forcing the smile that came naturally before, and urges, with equally forced playfulness, “What else, what else?  Tell me another story.”

“Can’t think of nothin’ else."  He spreads his hands wide in apology and nearly dropping the bottle with the gesture.  “Honest.  All I seen of her, you were there.  Except. . .”  His mouth twists in an embarrassed, apologetic grimace.

“Tell me about it,” says Inara.

“Well. . .yeah, reckon I’m drunk enough.  ‘N don’t s’pose she’d mind me telling you, way things are, but. . .you sure?”

“It was her last night.  I want. . .I want to know.”

“All right.”  Mal rubs his hand over his mouth, then rubs the back of his neck, then heaves himself slightly more upright.  “Well.  Uh.  She showed me her guns.  We shared her rice wine.  Talked some, laughed some.  She told me this and that about her time at Sihnon, her leavin’.  Nothin’ you wouldn’t already know.  Nothin’. . .special, really.  Just friendly-like.”

“And then. . .”

“And then I asked to take her to bed and she laughed and said—said as how she’d been waiting on me to ask.  And I—I said it’d been a long time and I meant to take it slow, and—and so we did.”

He’s going a little red in the face and the words come slowly, heavy with effort, but now that he’s started, he shows no signs of balking.  She wonders just what level of detail he means to take this to, and the thought makes her own cheeks heat, which is simply absurd.  Explicit sex talk hasn’t embarrassed her since. . .since. . .she can’t even remember that far back!

Nandi would laugh her head off at Inara’s foolishness, if she were here.

“We started off just kissing for a while,” Mal goes on, still staring resolutely at his hands.  “Then she, uh, well, she took the shirt off me.  Only seemed polite to return the favor, and, well, you know.  Then there we were with our clothes off.”  He raises his eyes to hers, suddenly, and adds, “She was real lovely to look at.  In her clothes and out of ‘em.”

“She was,” Inara murmurs, because it’s only the truth.

Mal looks away again, this time gazing in an unfocused way at the far wall.  “Well, then, one thing more or less led to another.  We took it slow, like I said.  We, uh. . .we touched a lot.  Hands, mouths.  Pretty much everywhere.  She had a real sweet mouth.  I, uh. . .”  Bright red now, he throws her an apologetic look, apparently giving up the struggle for explicitness.  She wants to scream in relief and frustration.

“We. . .we weren’t laughing no more, but it was. . .friendly,” he continues.  “Like we was friends, having a good time together.  Making each other feel good.”  He shakes his head a little.  “Well, I s'pose she coulda made it seem whatever way she wanted.  Companion tricks 'n' all.  But I don’t think. . .I believe it was real for her.  Like it was for me.  Two of us together in that room, sharing a little piece of sweetness.”

“It sounds. . .”  Inara tries to say something, she doesn’t even know what, but she's stifling for air, throat clenched, chest tight.  She feels trapped inside her too-tight skin, and she can’t bear to hear more, and she can’t bear for him to stop.

“It was good,” says Mal.  Then he meets her eyes for a moment and adds, “And it was a mistake.  Not because of what happened after.  But because. . .Well.  I thought. . .I don’t know.  S'pose I thought it’d be simple.  Just a night, with someone who wanted me there, who liked me, but who wasn’t gonna. . .make things complicated.  Well, and she didn’t.  She wouldn’t'a.  But thing about complications is, try to ignore ‘em, they just bite you on the ass.  And I shouldn’t'a tried to. . .”  He takes a deep breath, shakes his head.  “Thought maybe it’d make things easier between you and me.  Make it easier to—to not mind.  Be your friend and not—not wish for what ain’t—”

“Don’t.”  The word comes out cracked and wet, nearly choking her.

“Inara.  I’m sorry.  I never meant—if I thought—”

“Don’t.  You gave her a last bit of joy, and I—I’m grateful for that, truly—She deserved—she—I only wish—”

A horrible, humiliating, strangled noise forces its way out of her throat, followed by a rush of tears, the ugly, uncontrollable crying she always locks behind closed doors when she can’t keep it in. 

“Hey,” Mal says softly.  “Hey, now.”

Sobs rattle her body, making her fight for breath.  Tears and worse soak her face, her hair, Mal's crimson shirt, because somehow, his broad chest is supporting her weight, the heat of him soaking into her.

“I miss her,” Inara chokes out.  “I miss her so much and she’s gone and I never—I’ll never—”

She clutches at him, making fists in his shirt as she buries her face in his shoulder, and his arms wrap tentatively around her.

“There, there now,” he murmurs into her hair, with tenderness she’s never heard from him before, not even directed at Kaylee.  “Of course you miss her.  That’s only natural.  I got you now, just don’t you worry about nothin’.  We got all the time in the 'verse.  There now, there you go. . .”

She loses the sense of the words, loses shame and fear and time and everything but the storm ripping her apart, until it finally abates, leaving her washed up on Mal’s shoulder, raw and drained.  He's cradling her like something fragile, which ought to make her angry, except that she's too exhausted to feel any more.

“Did you do this in the army?” she asks, her voice rough from all the crying. “When someone died?”

Mal grunts affirmatively, then adds, to her surprise, “When there was a quiet spell.  When you’re fighting, ain’t exactly time for anything else.”

That’s already as much as she’s ever heard him say at any one time about his soldiering days, but he goes on, his breaths rocking her head slightly as it rests on his shoulder, “Could be days or weeks later, but when we could, we’d scrounge up whatever booze we could.  Gather to send ‘em off proper.  Everyone we’d lost since. . .whenever.  We’d name ‘em, one by one.  Tell their stories.  If a name came up and weren’t no one left who’d cared for ‘em. . .someone always found somethin' to tell.  Even if it was just, ‘She wouldn’t never shut up about her dog back home,’ or. . .or, ‘He swapped me a pair of dry socks once.’”

Despite her fear of breaking whatever spell has loosened his tongue, Inara rests her hand on his bicep in a gesture of comfort.  His other arm tightens around her, a little.  And, astonishingly, he keeps talking in that low, dark-of-the-night voice.

“Sometimes. . .when we were on the march, or holed up waiting for the action to start. . .I’d sit there lookin' at everyone, thinkin' of things to say about ‘em when the time came.  At the wake, even, I’d be doin' it.  Savin' up memories for the next one.'

Shivering, she presses against his warm bulk, and again he hugs her closer.

“How did you do it?” she whispers.  “How did you keep doing it?”

Mal shrugs one-shouldered, careful not to disturb her.  “Didn’t have no choice.”

“Of course you did.  You could have stopped.  Surrendered, deserted. . .”  _Died,_ she doesn’t say, but the word hangs between them.

“Reckon it ain’t in my nature.”

Which is part of the beauty of him, but it doesn’t make him indestructible.  He came close to admitting as much to her, the other day, after Nandi. . .and yet, here he is, still carrying on, because what happened at the Heart of Gold shook him, but it won’t be the thing to break him.  But something, sooner or later. . .

“Your friend, Tracey.  That thing he said.  If you can’t crawl, you find someone to carry you.”

“Mm hm.”

“Anyone ever carry you?” she whispers.

“Zoë, a time or two.  Done the same for her.  No one. . .no one else still living.”  She hears him swallow, loud in the silence.  “Well, except…”  The hand that isn’t holding her makes a broad gesture at the walls of the shuttle enclosing them, but of course, he means _Serenity_.  His people; his family.  “I. . .I don’t ever. . .it’s hard for me to say such things out loud, but. . .”

She squeezes his knee.  “They know you know.”

“Hope that’s so,” he says hoarsely.  He covers her hand, still resting on his knee, with his own.  It dwarfs hers, everything about him is so large, so much, too much—  “Inara—”

“I can’t.”  She stiffens; he immediately spreads his arms to release her.  But her body is as limp and heavy as wet laundry and his is warm and solid and comfortable to lean against.  She doesn’t want to move; she doesn’t want to ever move again, or make decisions, or fight to do the right thing, or, worst of all, think.

She presses her face back into his shoulder, her hair tumbling down to hide her further.  Mal gives a surprised grunt and holds very still while his heartbeat quickens under her cheek.

After some time, when it’s clear she’s not going to move, he tentatively settles an arm back around her shoulders.  It releases something in her, and she starts to shiver and then to weep again, tears leaking out of her as though they’re as exhausted as she is.  He holds her and she lets him, she lets go of grace and endurance and self-control, of providing beauty and comfort; she lets him bear her weight, just for now, just until she’s a little less tired. . .she’s just so tired. . .

The quiet rumble of Mal’s voice drifts through her drifting consciousness: “Said I wouldn’t try to talk you into anything, ‘n’ I’m not.  Just. . .it don’t gotta be me, but. . .sooner or later, you’re gonna need to let someone carry you a spell. . .ain’t no shame in it. . .only way to make it out alive. . .that’s right, you cry if you want, I won’t tell a soul. . .”

 

 

                                    *                            *                                  *

 

She wakes curled up among the cushions with a shawl tucked around her, a thoroughly unsurprising throbbing headache, and more actual desire to get out of bed and start the day than she’s felt in. . .well, since they put Nandi in the ground.  (It’s ridiculous to go on denying the obvious once it’s been spelled out for her in such very small words.)  She drinks a day’s ration of water, gives herself a thorough sponge bath, and makes a pot of tea.  As she’s waiting for it to steep, she realizes that what she really needs is breakfast.

A glance at the chrono tells her that folk will be up and about; she’s not the earliest riser on _Serenity_ to begin with, and she’s slept much later than her usual hour.  But people don’t tend to congregate for breakfast, and she finds her reluctance to encounter anyone in the kitchen is overwhelmed by her desire for food.

In fact, no one is in the kitchen when she arrives, but Kaylee wanders in while Inara is fixing herself a bowl of protein paste disguised with seaweed flakes and wasabi powder.  Seeing Inara, Kaylee makes an aborted movement back the way she came, then reconsiders and offers Inara a tentative smile.

“Good morning,” Inara greets her, returning the smile.  The simple courtesy still feels like far more effort than it should.  But not impossible.

Kaylee’s smile blossoms like a peony.

“Hey,” she answers.  “Making something good?”

“Oh. . .I thought I’d get creative and try mixing some green protein with my purple this morning,” Inara replies.

“You know what happens if you mix all the colors together?”

“No, what?”

“Well, depending who you ask, either it’s a powerful hallucinogenic—”

“Or a powerful aphrodisiac?”

Kaylee claps her hands over her mouth, mock-scandalized, eyes twinkling in delight.  “Aw, you’re terrible.”

“No, I’ve just heard a lot of those stories.”

“I bet you have,” says Kaylee, with a grin that lightens Inara’s heart a little.

Relieved as she is to make Kaylee smile, Inara doesn’t want to get involved in the kind of conversation she absolutely owes Kaylee.  Not this morning.  She still feels. . .fragile, as though too much social effort might cause her to fracture like stressed porcelain.

“Kaylee. . .would you do me a favor?”

“Of course!  What is it?”

“Do you know whether Mal is up yet?”

“Ain’t seen him this morning.  Might be he’s still in bed.”  Kaylee frowns, no doubt at the realization that it’s awfully late for Mal not to be stirring.

“Something tells me he might appreciate some tea this morning.  I just made a pot; it’s in my shuttle.  Would you mind taking it to him?”

Kaylee opens her mouth, and Inara can actually see her start to ask why Inara can’t take it to Mal herself, then catch herself, think it through, make a fairly obvious inference about why Inara might want to send Mal a pot of tea rather than carry it to him and what what reason she might have to think he’s in need of tea this particular morning—and then bite her tongue to hold back a squeal of delight.

“Sure, of course, I can take it.  No trouble,” says Kaylee, suppressing a grin behind an unconvincing look of wide-eyed innocence.

“Thank you,” Inara tells her gravely.

She takes her breakfast back to her shuttle with Kaylee following at her heels, hands off the teapot, watches Kaylee scurry off with it, and closes the shuttle door behind her with a smile tugging at her lips.

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

There’s a knock on her door around the time that dinner should be just about over.  Inara opens the door, expecting Shepherd Book with a renewed offer of a dinner tray and a sympathetic ear, but instead, it’s Mal, clutching her teapot carefully in both hands.

“Oh,” she says, startled, and then isn’t sure what else to say.

“I brung you your teapot back,” he says, awkwardly, but he’s able to muster the words, which puts him one up on her.  “Washed it and all.  Uh.  Thanks.  For the tea.”

He places the pot into her outstretched hands.  He’s back to taking care not to accidentally touch her, which, ironically, serves as a jarring reminder of how closely they touched each other last night.  A complicated blend of emotions wells up in her: embarrassment, grief, gratitude and something dark and melancholy that she can’t tell whether to label regret or yearning.

Gratitude, at least, is appropriate to express.

“Thank you," she says.  _For the booze,_ she could say, and he would understand what she meant, but she can do better than that, at least in this little way.  "For being kind to me."

He raises his eyes from the teapot to meet hers.  He looks both pleased and solemn.

“Anytime,” he answers.

When she doesn’t say anything further, he waves one hand in front of him in the faintest mockery of a bow, turns, and leaves her.

 

            *                                  *                                  *

 

Her shuttle is an unpardonable mess.  She can’t remember when she last tidied.  (Yes, she can, because she keeps a strictly regular routine, and it was two days before Nandi’s wave.)  Suddenly unable to bear the disorder a moment longer, she changes into her oldest slip and over-robe, stacks all the rugs and pillows in one corner, and systematically beats the dust out of each.  (Dust doesn’t gather nearly as quickly on a spaceship as on a planet, of course, but humans and their possessions do still shed, even in a sealed environment, and _Serenity_ ’s air circulation system is functional, but basic.)  She sweeps the floor, transfers the collected dirt into the recycler hatch, and carefully re-assembles her sitting area.

She changes the sheets on her bunk, folding the old ones into her laundry bag along with the clothing that’s already in there, which is overdue for cleaning.  She adds the house-robes she’s been wearing for several days straight (she refuses to think about exactly how many days, or about the fact that she entertained a visitor—had _Mal_ in her room—in such a completely unkempt state.  She also ignores the horrified clamor of every instructor she ever had, in her head).  She’ll have to take the laundry to the cleaning module later (the module is primitive, but she’s learned how to coax it into not destroying her silks).

The passing thought that she should be putting this effort towards packing rather than cleaning, she brushes aside.  It would be undisciplined and inefficient to break off halfway through one project to begin another.

She restores all her belongings to their proper places, adjusts the position of each item until everything looks as it should.  Pleased with the result, she kneels at her tea table, one element of beauty and function in its proper place, part of the harmonious whole.

She can’t sit still for long, though.  She finds herself rising and pacing the room for no purpose whatsoever.  The restless energy that drove her housecleaning still teases her like a cloud of mosquitoes.  She opens a book of poetry on her reader, but though her eyes run over the words, her mind won't settle in to contemplate their meaning.

_. . .snow gleams on the distant mountain / I dream of snow falling on my distant home. . ._

_. . .one petal drifts to rest on my lover’s thigh. . ._

Of course.  That's her trouble.  Feeling foolish not to have recognized it sooner, Inara cups her breast in one hand, pinches the nipple gently between thumb and finger, and gasps at the jolt of yearning between her legs.  Well, that's clear enough.  She shakes her head ruefully.  Yet another routine she’s neglected while she’s been. . .moping. . .no, grieving.  She’s been grieving for her friend who died, for Nandi, and there’s nothing strange or wrong about that.  It’s what people naturally do when they lose someone they love.

And now, her body is reminding her of some of the ways in which she’s been neglecting it while her mind has been elsewhere.  Also perfectly natural, and it doesn’t do to let sexual tension fester unaddressed for too long, because communication between mind and body runs both ways, and when the body is unsatisfied, thoughts and emotions suffer.  Which is among the reasons that regular self-satisfaction is part of a Companion’s physical maintenance routine.

She reclines among the pillows, settles herself comfortably, and parts her robes.

First, she runs her palms languorously over her body: strokes each arm, then both hands down between her breasts, over stomach, hips, thighs, down to the knees and up again.  When she caresses her inner thighs, she feels a spark, and a stronger one when she fondles her breasts.  She massages her nipples, kindling more sparks, stronger ones, until they merge into a warm, impatient glow.

( _Learn your own body; learn_ _what brings you pleasure, what excites you.  You will need to lead clients through the dance of pleasure; and if they are uninterested in yours, you will need to be able to make your body ready with your thoughts alone. . ._ )

The first gentle touch of a fingertip to her bud excites a tingle laden with the promise of greater to come.  With light pressure, she massages a lazy circle, her other hand rolling a nipple to the same rhythm.  Sensation so subtle she can barely feel it, except for the tension gathering between her legs, the heat rising in her cheeks, the acceleration of her breath, the longing for _more._

( _“Are you practicing for the slowest-to-the-finish-line races?” Nandi once teased her, when the two of them were practicing together, each lying in her own bed, arms’-length apart in their small shared bedroom.  “I know, I know, it’s an art form and you’re an artist, but where do you find the_ patience _?”_

_“Slow-blooming flowers smell sweetest,” Inara quoted, mock-solemn, then gave herself a gentle fingertip-flick just so and arched her back with a delicate sigh of pleasure for Nandi’s benefit._

_“Early-blooming flowers give more blossoms,” Nandi replied in a dead-on imitation of Madame Liao’s nasal, aristocratic tones—and then performed cries of orgasmic pleasure in those same tones until they both dissolved into snorting laughter._ )

Smiling fondly, Inara delicately maps her folds with two fingertips, but finds that it doesn’t produce much response.  That isn’t unusual: she’s most sensitive there when she’s highly aroused, less so in the earlier stages.  She dips a fingertip into her vagina and finds it barely damp, despite the restless, unfocused urge that drives her.

She licks two fingers and returns them to rubbing their slow circles; the moisture definitely helps, increasing the tantalizing tingling.  Lubricant would help even more, but she doesn’t feel like stopping to fetch it.  What would be best, of course, would be if she could replace her damp fingers with someone’s tongue—ah, yes, that would be nice.  It’s been too long since she took a client whose tastes ran that way. . .there was that rather sweet boy a few months ago who was as eager to learn how to give pleasure as to take his own. . .it was lovely to have him between her legs, her fingers grasping his curly hair just tightly enough for him to feel it, his tongue lapping, exploring, moderating the speed and pressure in response to her instructions. . .oh yes, yes, that’s good, that’s better. . .

Did Mal pleasure Nandi with his tongue? she wonders.  Did she play with his hair as his head rested between her legs?  Did he make her squirm and sigh. . .tease and draw it out until she urged him to finish already, _gorram_ it?  Did she need to instruct him in how it’s done. . .or didn’t he need instruction. . .or did they make a mistress-may-I game of it. . . ?  _Hands, mouths, pretty much everywhere,_ he said.  Well, that's vague enough that it could mean anything—and why is she even thinking about this?  It’s none of her business, in the first place, and furthermore, it’s inappropriate to think about—people—friends—during self-pleasure exercises.  Inara’s better trained than that!

( _“It’s absurd to have rules for what you can and can’t think about!" Nandi used to argue.  "It isn’t even consistent!  Aren’t they always telling us, ‘Your pleasure is your own, your body is your own, figure out what works best for you’?  I don’t see what’s any more private and personal than your own mind!”_

 _“They’re not rules,” Inara pointed out.  “They’re not forbidding anything, they’re just saying that thoughts can have undesirable consequences.”_ )

She clears her mind to focus on the task at hand, on the range of sensations she can invoke in her own body as she strokes her own skin with increasing firmness and speed.  Nipples, thighs, abdomen, fingers toying with the curls between her legs, tugging, teasing, then finding their way back to her bud . . .breasts, throat, lips, tongue. . . _She had a sweet mouth,_ said Mal, awkward with emotion. . .Nandi knew infinite ways to give pleasure with her mouth.  She would have kissed his mouth, his muscular body. . . _pretty much everywhere. . ._ maybe she nibbled his inner thighs, licked his stomach where the muscles were clenched in anticipation, while he twisted the sheets in his fists and struggled not to plead and lost the struggle—

“Oh for Lord’s sake!” Inara mutters savagely and delivers a stinging open-palmed smack to her own hip, reprimand and distraction combined.

Masturbation is usually a form of meditation, or at worst, a not-very-tedious chore to take care of—

(“ _What about fun?” Nandi railed.  “Sex is supposed to be fun!  Unless you’re doing it to make babies, which we’re absolutely not!  When I’m a sought-after Companion, I’ll only accept clients who are fun.  In or out of bed.”_

 _“You’ll have to please a lot of tiresome clients in order to become sought-after,” Inara pointed out, and Nandi hit her with a pillow_.)

—but today, Inara’s mind refuses to clear.  Her thoughts keep wandering—yes, all right, not in random directions, the problem isn’t really distraction, it’s. . .inability to distract her mind from what it really wants to focus on.

All right then, she decides, if she can’t avoid thinking about it, she’ll just have to give in and face it square-on.  Nandi and. . .and Mal.

Nandi kissing Mal, one hand delicately cupping his cheek, the slight curve of her fingers echoing the shape of a lotus leaf (she still served tea with the trained gestures of a Companion, so she probably hadn't wholesale thrown out the bedroom gestures they'd both been schooled in, either).  Mal bending his head down to meet her lips; one big hand resting on her slender waist.

Mal kissing Nandi, slowly, reverently.  Kissing her passionately, forcefully (but not violently, not Mal; there’s violence in him, to be sure, but not the sexual kind), wrapping her in his strong arms and bending her backwards.  Mal on his knees before her, kissing her hands. . .kissing her feet?

No, Nandi would enjoy that game, but worship is not Mal’s style, not even for play.  Nor is submission.  Would he want to dominate, then?  Would he insist on leading?  That’s easier to imagine, as there’s more than a touch of alpha-male about Mal.  But although Nandi might tolerate that sort of behavior in a client—she’d have little choice, if she wanted her business to survive in that small town—she wouldn’t put up with it in a lover she’d taken for pleasure.  _Friendly,_ Mal said, _Friends sharing a good time together._   He must have treated her like a friend, then, she decides with a surprisingly strong rush of relief laced with something bittersweet that she doesn’t want to examine.  Not now, anyway, with her hand between her legs and her lip between her teeth and her body riding the edge between desire and frustration, crying out silently for release.

She won’t dwell on Mal and Nandi laughing together, teasing, exploring each other with respect and affection.  She won’t imagine what they said.  Stick to. . .

_Mal bows his head to nuzzle Nandi’s breasts, kisses that spot at the center of the cleavage that draws men’s eyes.  He feathers delicate kisses all along the top of one breast, then the other, taking his time, lavishing attention on them.  Nandi tips back her head and arches her back, expressing her pleasure and inviting him to continue.  He slides one big hand up her back to support her weight, and she leans into it, trusting him to support her, the trust itself a particular kind of pleasure.  He kisses his way down to her right nipple.  His tongue comes out to test, explore, tease.  Nandi purrs low in her throat.  A pleased, lascivious smile spreads over her lips as she brings up one hand to thread her fingers into the thick scruff of his back hair._

_The curve of Mal’s bowed back and neck.  The solid bulk of him, with Nandi arching up out of his arms, delicate and strong as a willow, her copper hair swinging down like leaves.  Mal’s free hand rests on Nandi’s thigh, his thumb stroking the crease where bare flesh meets tightly curled hair.  He closes his lips around her nipple, giving a low grunt of appreciation as he begins to suck.  Nandi’s smile grows broader with her gasp of pleasure._

(Inara’s own nipples tingle, tight and yearning.  She rolls one between finger and thumb, harder and harder, until the pleasure sparkles at the edge of pain.  The fingers of her other hand are slick now as she works her bud faster, craving, reaching . . .)

_Mal lays Nandi down on the bed; she spreads out her naked glory against the sheets, with a smile that blends invitation and challenge.  He kneels between her legs and pauses to gaze appreciatively down at her, his grin blossoming, smug and anticipatory and fond.  Nandi swats at his arm, mock-impatient, then sweeps her legs up behind him, plants her heels on his buttocks and pulls him down to her, slotting him inside herself in one graceful motion. . ._

_Or, they roll in each other’s arms, frantic, groaning, licking and biting at whatever sweat-slick skin comes within reach, trying to touch each other everywhere at once.  Mal’s hair is matted with sweat, drops roll down his back, crossing the pink tracks left by Nandi’s painted nails.  He gasps as Nandi squirms beneath him, unable to quite get into position to accomplish their mutual desire until Mal heaves himself up on his hands and then plunges back down into her. . .  
_

_Or, Mal sits against the headboard, legs spread, with Nandi straddling his lap.  She rides him with the rhythmic, rolling grace of deep-water swells.  Sweat sparkles on her shoulders, on his chest; their open eyes sparkle in the candlelight as they kiss, and kiss, and don’t stop kissing.  His hands travel over her back, trembling with the effort to stroke, not scratch; to hold, not clench.  She murmurs something, low and sweet.  He moans urgently in reply.  She chuckles.  He embraces her, cradling her in both arms as she rocks them both towards climax.  His head between her breasts, she sighs, licking her open lips luxuriously._

_Then she turns her head to smile directly at Inara._

_“Like what you see,_ mei-mei _?”_

_She beckons with her free hand.  That familiar fond, mischievous smile._

_Inara shakes her head.  “This isn’t—I can’t—you’re not—”_

_“Don’t worry, he won’t mind,” Nandi promises.  “Will you, darlin’?”_

_She pets Mal’s cheek.  He raises his face from her cleavage to look at Inara, dark-eyed, sex-dazed, frankly longing.  He licks his lower lip._

_The desire to touch it, to touch him, overwhelms her.  She reaches down and runs a finger over that wet, pink lip.  Mal’s mouth falls open on a groan, his eyes fluttering closed._

_Nandi chuckles, low and dirty and delighted._

_“Think he likes it.”_

_“I think you’re right,” Inara manages faintly, not taking her eyes off Mal’s face.  She slides the finger into his mouth.  His lips close around it instantly.  As he sucks langorously, he opens his eyes to look at her.  Question and invitation, both, while his tongue caresses her finger, making her whole body tingle as though he’s licking her in a much more intimate place._

_“Don’t think so hard,_ mei-mei _.  Just go on,” says Nandi in her ear, and she leans back, giving Inara room to bend and kiss_ _him._

_Unlike the time she kissed his unconscious lips, Mal’s mouth is eager against hers, whispering tiny urgent moans, opening to invite exploration.  She’s panting when she pulls away, almost dizzy, her heartbeat hammering raggedly throughout her body._

_Mal gives her a loose, goofy grin that makes him look boyishly handsome.  She’s never seen him so unguardedly happy: it brings tears to her eyes even as a hot wave of desire rushes through her._

_She tears her eyes away to look at Nandi, still right beside her, naked and. . .smiling at her with a familiar combination of fondness and mischief._

_“I don’t want to—” Inara whispers, but the sentence has so many possible endings, she’s not even sure which she means._

_“It’s all right,” Nandi says.  She slides off Mal’s lap and pushes him down to lie flat on the bed with his head resting in the crook of her hip.  She strokes his hair with one hand and gestures with the other like a merchant displaying her wares.  “He’s all yours.  Help yourself.”_

_But it’s too much for Inara: the sight of Mal’s naked body spread out between her legs, arching up towards her, his bitten lips and the eager reverent hunger on his face as he reaches out to steady her, to caress her.  Her orgasm rushes up, blood-hot and electric, blooming at her core and consuming her._

She’s left panting in her bunk, clenching her legs around her own hand, whimpering as the last tremors ripple through her.

Her body relaxes, loose and sated and deliciously heavy, but her mind keeps churning, wrung out but still unable to just let go, shut down, shut up and give her some peace.

 _“What did they do to you, Inara,_ mei-mei _?_ ”  That’s what Nandi would say if she were here.  _“You always did worry too much, but you never used to be afraid to take what you wanted.”_

“I did it to myself, _jie-jie_ ,” she whispers.  “I locked myself in, I learned how to be lonely, and then I forgot how to do anything else.” 

_“Well, that’s dumb, don’t you think?”_

Inara breathes out a laugh that’s trembling on the edge of tears.  “Oh, Nandi.  I’m sorry I never contacted you.  I’m sorry I’ve been such a coward.  I miss you.”

 

            *                                  *                                  *

 

Mal opens his door, astonished to find her knocking, as well he might be. 

“Inara.  Something I can do for you?”

“I wanted to speak to you.  About the itinerary,” she says.  “I know you’ve been waiting on me to make my arrangements.”

He shrugs away the implicit apology.  “It’s okay.  I know you can’t just snap your fingers and. . .Anyway, nothin’ to get fussed over.”

“Thank you,” Inara says, but she finds it harder than it should be to go on. 

“So. . .you worked out where you need to get to?” Mal asks.

“I wouldn’t say I have the long-term details pinned down, but I know where I need to start.  I have my eye on a mutually beneficial business arrangement.”

“Well, congratulations.”  If he can’t deliver the words cheerfully, they at least sound no more snide than the majority of things that ever come out of his mouth.  “So where you need us to drop you?”

“Actually, I—I’d like to renew my rental agreement for the shuttle.”

She pauses to enjoy his reaction (he’s always been a pleasure to set up, to provoke).  Predictably enough, his eyes get comically round with astonishment, but she wasn’t prepared for the flash of hope across his face.  Nor for her own reaction to it, as heat diffuses up from her belly to her already-tight throat.

He doesn’t reply, though.  Even though she knows she hasn’t misread him, she’s helpless to stave off the rush of anxiety: _too late, too late._

She forces her smile and voice to stay light as she adds, “That is, if it’s still available?”

“No, no, uh, it’s—it’s available,” he stammers hastily.

“No surveyors on your waiting list?” she teases, on sure ground now, but strangely breathless anyway.  “I wouldn’t want to keep you from pursuing a profitable—”

“Oh, well, profit, you know,” Mal cuts in, making a valiant, if clumsy, attempt to join in the game.  “Having a Companion on board has made us—once you figure in the opportunities available to us on account of being able to dock at certain—and then, can’t forget your contribution to that whole thing with the Lassiter—taking one thing and another, I’d say you brung us a tidy. . .uh. . .”

She lets him trail off, waits just long enough for his lack of words to be established, and then asks, archly, “So, it’s a deal?”

“Same terms?”

“Well. . .”  She takes a measured breath, cherry blossoms drifting in the back of her mind as she focuses on Mal’s face before her eyes.  “I think we may have. . .strayed a bit from the strict letter of our original contract.  Over time.  Taking one thing and another.”

“Reckon that’s so,” he agrees cautiously.

“And I imagine we’re likely to continue. . .evolving.  Our understanding.  As things come up.  So perhaps we should consider the old terms as. . .a starting place?  Rather than an ending place?”

The dumbfounded look on Mal’s face would be hilarious, if she were in any mood to laugh.

“I, uh.  That sounds like a—a sensible way of. . .I’d like that.”

“So would I,” she admits softly before extending her hand for him to shake.

The handshake is businesslike enough, but when Mal loosens his grip, Inara holds on and puts her other hand on his, clasping it for a moment or two longer.  She meets his startled eyes with a steady gaze that she hopes conveys. . .well, hope, at least.

When she lets his hand go, Mal immediately crosses his arms, uncrosses them again, then rubs the back of his neck.

“Well, I uh, I expect Kaylee’ll be glad to hear you’re sticking around,” he says with awkward heartiness.  ‘Course, you’ll most likely have to grovel some ‘fore she’ll stop being mad at you.  Maybe buy her some frippery.  Nothin’ says _I’m sorry_ like a mess o’ ruffles.”

“Or I'll just buy her some engine parts,” Inara counters—and then wants to bite her tongue, remembering how putting off replacing an engine part very nearly cost them all their lives, not too long ago.  The last thing she wants to think about right now is finding Mal facedown and bleeding on the floor of the dark and nearly airless bridge.

“Any repairs you want to finance, that’s shiny by me,” he replies.

“I owe you an engine part or two of your own, I imagine,” she says softly.

He shakes his head, not playing any more, either.  “You don’t owe me nothin’, Inara.”

She doesn’t, and then, also, she does.

“We’ll have to argue about that later,” she tells him, and from the smile that steals over his face, she can tell he hears it as a promise.

“I guess we will.”

Inara turns to walk away, but looks back over her shoulder when Mal says, “See you at supper then?”

“I’ll be there.”


End file.
